Count Your Blessings

 

Doing the dishes, like I do every single morning, is a meditative philosophical act.  And, when I say “doing the dishes”, I mean the old fashioned way, with both hands in a tub of hot soapy water with the scrub brush hanging on the wall next to the window sill and the drain rack on the counter to the right.  I think the hot, soapy water is the reagent that leads to deep thoughts and philosophical moods, and the repetitive, mindless motions allow one to stay in the present while gazing at the feast of activity in the back yard out the window – the birds flocking to the suet cake, jays landing on the deck roof to snatch the peanuts she tosses up there for them, while the hummingbirds flash through the scene to one of the feeders on either side, which they guard with impressive displays of tail feathers.  The fuzzy-tailed rats with good PR, otherwise known as squirrels, congregate on the deck roof and wolf down the suet cake while sneering at me when I complain.  When our dog, Bella, passed, so did any fear remaining in those rodents.

Why do I do the dishes every morning, you ask?  Pure self-interest is the answer.  I learned years ago that, if every time she decided to bake some delectable concoction  in the oven or whip out a delicious meal on the stove top, the dishes would magically be cleaned and returned to their places the very next day, the result of that would be more goodies.  And so it has turned out to be, a fair trade in any book, I say.

We had a dishwashing machine in the kitchen when we bought this place in ’97, the first one ever.  I remember the seller referring to it as a “dish storage device”, which I soon learned was true, and when the seals inevitably failed out it went to make room for recycling bins.  After I retired the first time we had to reconsider our domestic routines, and I wound up with the dishes.  Now I own them.

There was a guy on Facebook a while back, some general, and he was asked what the first thing was he got done every day, and he said, “I make my bed.  It’s simple, it’s easy, there’s a right way and a wrong way, and that way, I start off every day with an accomplishment.  Some days, that’s the only part that went according to plan.”

Doing the dishes is my equivalent of what he said.  I have also observed that the sound of me doing the dishes while she relaxes in the next room seems to have a beneficial effect on her general contentment, and therefore also mine.  It could be a self-reinforcing cycle that never ends, but I always seem to run out of dishes, eventually.

And so it goes in the never ending struggle to find meaning in life, and take pleasure during even the worst of times in the simple things that matter. Count your blessings. :-{)}